


Harvest

by amanitamuscaria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 08:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8395234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amanitamuscaria/pseuds/amanitamuscaria
Summary: Severus is known for his iron control.Written for Snarry-a-Thon 2011





	

Harvest

 

 

 

He reviewed the bindings; before every class he reviewed the bindings, but especially before this class. Gryffindor and Slytherin, bad enough, without  _those two_ \- all was as it should be; he proceeded to his classroom.

 

*-----------------------*

 

He'd arrived at Hogwarts, in Slytherin House with a store of curses and hexes, his mother's old trunk and schoolbooks, a secondhand wand and robes, and an _attitude_. The dark-haired prefect had chivvied him along when he'd stopped to look after Lily, and he'd absently murmured, "In a minute -"

"You will come with us _now_ , Mr. Snape; I am not your mummy. Has a little Mudblood caught your eye? Precocious, are we, with _attitude_? I'll be sure to keep my eye on you, then."

The girl had giggled, and a boy had pulled him along by the arm when he'd stared at her in confusion, muttering to him, "You don't want to attract Petra's attention, you don't."

 

*-----------------------*

 

The bindings dug in and reminded him, with every movement, to keep control of himself. Even without movement, sat at his desk, they pulled and pinched, reminding him. Potter gazed blankly up at him, and he bore it for a moment before, goaded into action, he swirled to his feet - digging, pulling - and descended amongst the little beasts, snarling, "Mister Potter appears to have time to daydream - finished, have you? Shall we see what our celebrity has managed to concoct?"

Potter's eyes focused with alarm on his Professor, and Snape felt a smug little thrill; he bent down by the messy hair, inhaling the scent of boy, of Potter, hissing, "Shall we see?"

Potter blushed, his potions book tumbling into his lap as he stammered, his potion at a mediocre but acceptable half-way stage. Snape dipped the ladle in, poured the thickening mixture in a stream, and said, "Not quite there yet; perhaps a bit more concentration on your work and less time dreaming about your next Quidditch victory is called for."

Potter reddened further; it wasn't as satisfying as the defiance the boy had shown before. Malfoy snickered, and a moment later, Goyle and Crabbe laughed. He didn't let his eyes drift over to that side of the room, but waved generally and said, "Continue. I must assume, as our most famous pupil hasn't finished his potion, the rest of you won't have either."

Regaining the security of his desk, he scanned the room, seating himself with a wince he turned into a sneer. He replayed the encounter - the book. The Potions book had landed in Potter's lap - perhaps the boy had been having fantasies?

 

*-----------------------*

 

When he'd reached the dorms, he'd stood, confused. He'd never shared a room before. A boy, almost as tall and skinny as he, had shoved him towards the bed beneath the window, saying, "That's your trunk, isn't it,  _Enid_ ? Are you a Prince, then? Have we royalty amongst us?"

He'd bowed deeply, adding a flourish, and the rest of the boys had laughed, at least they did until Severus had cast Langlock on them.

He moved over to the bed. The hangings would allow him to shut out the rest of the room, but he could let the moon, gibbous and yellow, shine into his own private space. Closing the hangings, he hurriedly set his wards and locks before opening the window to allow the moon full access. This bed would catch all the draughts, but he didn't care about that; it wouldn't be any colder than his room at home.

 

Slughorn was no use; he left all discipline to his head boy and girl, Malfoy and Black, who generally spent their time together in a small room off the Common Room they'd claimed. Goyle and Damocles did their policing for them, and neither was a friend of Severus's. He learnt, much as he had at home, to keep his head down and escape notice as much as possible.

 

Narcissa was scornful of him; she'd flick her hair over her shoulder and sniff at him if ever he happened to cross her field of vision. Lucius, however, seemed neutral. He never appeared to notice Severus, but Severus was not fooled by that. He thought Lucius was rather like a weasel or the ferrets his dad kept - seemingly asleep, until they struck at the rat or rabbit that wandered too close. Nothing seemed to bother Lucius, he always appeared calm, with the self-assurance money and good birth had given him. Severus envied him furiously.

 

 

 

When Severus returned to Hogwarts after a grey and desperate summer, Lucius was there no longer, nor Narcissa, and the prefects were Damocles and Petra.

Damocles left him alone for the most part, as did the rest of the Slytherins, but Petra - Petra seemed to have made it her mission to torment him.

Every time he entered the Common Room, he was greeted by Petra mocking, bringing attention to him as much as he tried to avoid it. Midway through the year, it got worse.

Petra called out, "Here's our resident Gryffindor lover, back to grace us with his oily presence!"

As all eyes turned to him he felt an unwanted stirring in his groin. He tried to mumble a greeting, an apology, anything, and flee the room, but Petra sensed weakness like a jungle beast.

"Oh, but you can't leave us yet. Take your cloak off, sit by the fire," she was helped by others too afraid of her not to assist, and Petra crowed, "But our Prince is growing up! He's growing as we speak!"

Severus, bright red with shame, couldn't control the erection. Petra ran sharp fingernails down his neck, slid her hand in his shirt, and he couldn't think.

"Hmm - is it me you're longing for? I think it must be - it would be cruel to make you suffer."

She opened his robes, displaying the tatty grey underpants, the erection pushing them upward.

"Shall we see what our little snake has? Shall I release our little snake?"

 

After that, he had no peace.

He finally found, in one of the darker, dustier corners of the library, an old book. It referred, in masked terms, to his problem, but Severus was well used to deciphering abstruse references from the potions texts, the grimoires of spells. So, a spancel was what he needed, and Borgin and Burkes would be too expensive. His desperation rode him; he was beginning to react to Lily the same way too, and he could not bear it.

She was good, and pure, and his body was sullying any chance he had of keeping her friendship. She hadn't noticed so far, but if she did - .

He was waking up with the sheets soiled, but worse, much worse, he was walking around in a constant state of arousal. The brushing of his robes against his legs, the slide of his shirt on his chest, Lily touching his hand, the breeze from a passing butterfly, anything would set him off.

Worse still were the attentions of Mulciber and Damocles. They'd called him into the room that Damocles had claimed once Lucius had graduated. Mulciber had held him from behind as Damocles had stalked towards him.

"Precocious, Snape. You need us to show you what to do."

And Severus wanted to shake his head, say no, tear himself free, but Mulciber's hands were moving on his chest in a parody of a caress, and all that came out was a whimper.

He knew it wouldn't stop, would never stop, he couldn't stop it.

 

When he was summoned home because his father was dying, he went, though he had no wish to see the bastard again.

 

"I'll sit up with him, mum. Go and sleep, I'll call you if he needs you."

She looked at him for a long moment, then caressed his cheek - how long had it been since she'd done that? He jerked back, his flesh reacting, ducked his flaming face, and almost ran to the front room.

 

The blinds were drawn; the room stank of the sick body and the medicines, and his breathing was loud, harsh in the half-dark. The settee had been transformed into a bed, but that seemed to have been the limit of his mother's magical ability. The man, sunken-cheeked, hollow-eyed, glared at him, but his rough voice was gone. His dry purple lips still formed and spat words at Severus while the yellowed fingers clutched convulsively at the blanket. He sneered, picked up the packet of Woodbines and played with it. His father's eyes followed the little green and white packet, widened as Severus drew out one of the cylinders.

His father doubled up with the paroxysm of coughing, reflex from the years he'd smoked.

He crushed the cigarette, the packet, and hurled them at the wall, hating that he could see his nose, his hair mirrored in the hated body lying on the bed, hating that his body chose this moment to react, hating the familiar smell of tobacco.

His father slumped back onto the pillows, wheezing and exhausted, and he drew the chair up close to the bedside.

Staring at the veined hands, the nicotine-stained fingers, the bony knuckles that had drawn his blood, had hit and hurt and twisted him and his mum, he whispered his hate to the half-conscious shape. Sometimes, he thought his father was aware, could hear, maybe understand, but he did not care, and he did not cry. He hadn't cried since he was six.

When there was nothing more to say, when he'd talked himself out, he looked at the man and knew he was nearly gone. It had to be now, if he was going to do it.

He cast the silencing spell and pulled the bedclothes off. He'd practiced the incantation, and it worked, peeling the skin away. There was little blood, little noise, and when he'd finished, his father was dead.

Severus drew up his robe, pulled his pants down and, shivering, shaking, bound himself tightly with the spancel. He prayed it would have extra power.

After some very careful tidying spells, he called his mother down, and they saw the dawn in over silent cups of tea at the kitchen table.

 

When he returned to Hogwarts, he seemed to carry a different aura about him. Damocles and Mulciber no longer bothered him, not after he drew his wand and nailed Mulciber's feet to the floor when the older boy moved towards him his first evening back. He felt the stirring of his unruly flesh, and, as soon, felt the dig and pull of the spancel like the clench of his father's fist; "Finally good for something, ey, father," he muttered to himself, now he had the time to think without all that  _feeling_ rushing over him, time to fire the curse off, time to enjoy Mulciber's look of shock, time to turn the wince into a sneer.

 

After the lunchtime when he'd sat opposite Petra, she suddenly found first Damocles, then, in rapid succession, all the older Slytherin boys, and eventually, every other older boy almost irresistible. She had no time to harass Severus, no time for her prefect duties, and by June, she had left Hogwarts.

Severus concentrated on his reading, on studying with Lily, and resolved never to take the spancel off.

 

It reminded him every moment, as it cut and bit, to concentrate. It reminded him of where it had come from, of what he never wanted to be like. It reminded him that he had taken what had made him, and mastered himself with it. He would not allow himself to be so weak ever again.

 

It was Mulciber who made him come along with the others to the Three Broomsticks.

"For a meeting about your future, all our futures," he'd said.

"There may be jobs in it for us."

So Snape had gone along; what other prospects would he have? Slughorn favoured Lily, and even though Severus was the better student, Slughorn had no time for him. The best he could hope for would be lowly drudge work helping in some apothecary's.

 

Lucius and two older men were at the pub, and Lucius quizzed him closely. He met Lucius's gaze and it felt like the grey eyes were boring into him. Lucius sat back, a calculating look on his face. Nothing was promised, but Severus sensed Malfoy's eyes following him, judging him. He kept himself apart, as usual, and didn't join in the drinking. The others might not know, but Severus read the papers. He knew who was recruiting in that room, he knew who was looking over the harvest. The question was, what would be his choice?

 

That choice was made for him, like so many others. The Potter-Black pair hoisted him up, shamed him, made him spit out that name at Lily, and his choice was sealed. She would not forgive him, and truly, he didn't blame her. And then, she paired off with Potter, and he could hardly blame her there, either.

 

*-----------------------*

 

He watched as the doe, shining and graceful, led the running boy into the clearing. When the doe vanished, the boy had looked about suspiciously, but by then it could have been too late. He cursed the foolishness of Potter, he longed to step out and tell him that -. No. The boy would never trust him, would never listen. Never had.

A Lumos now; how could he be more foolish?

But at least, he'd seen the glimmer of the sword.

And then, Severus was pinned to the tree, his breath taken away by the sight of the boy undressing.

His mind battled between the idiocy of the action, and the beauty disclosed.

He'd never, even when ruled by his flesh, viewed beauty like this. Lily - had been untouchable, had been sacrosanct. In all his years, as a student, as a teacher, as a Death Eater, he'd seen pale flesh exposed, seen flesh displayed to tempt or taunt, but he'd not seen anything to compare to the simple stripping off of a boy in a clearing filled with snow and ice and moonlight, about to dive for his salvation. Although he felt the pulling, the griping, he had no inclination now to sneer, or wince. This scene sang of sacrifice, and he added his own small mite to the sacrament.

Of course, being Potter and not Evans, it did not play out in grace and awe.

He'd nearly left the shelter of his tree, counting the seconds the boy stayed beneath the water, grinding his teeth, cursing, sneering now, when the redheaded Weasley appeared and hauled Potter and the sword mundanely from the water. It had not been a very deep pool, and only Potter could have made such a production of a simple task. Blue and shivering with cold, the boy no longer muddled Severus's thoughts and he Apparated away, trusting to the common sense of the Weasley boy to assure their survival.

 

*-----------------------*

 

In the Shrieking Shack, the boy collected his memories, the wand in his hand shaking, his green eyes flicking up to meet Severus's anguished black ones again and again. Those small brief glances - what did he mean by them? He couldn't concentrate, with the venom burning in his veins, the counter-venom like ice, the hot pulsing at his throat, Voldemort brushing at the edge of his consciousness, pulling, pulling the memories, the memories that might make the boy understand, that might make him listen - but Potter was gathering up the memories, he'd come, and he'd not cursed Severus, and, after all, was there enough of Lily in him -

"Look at me," he'd whispered.

 

Severus didn't recollect the boy returning to the Shack. He became aware that he was being carried, swaying and uncomfortably folded, in someone's arms, clutched to a warm chest.

He'd heard Voldemort's amplified voice, now he heard Minerva's, complaining.

"But Harry, he killed Dumbledore! He's been running the school for the Death Eaters!"

"Yes. It was all a plan. A plan the Headmaster set up."

It all seemed too much; he'd hoped the afterlife would be quieter and more peaceful than this. But if Voldemort had won, as seemed likely if Minerva and Potter were here, then he supposed the groaning and muttering were to be expected.

 

Harry looked at him, those green eyes traveling from the top of his head to his long yellow feet, then back. He held himself stiffly - Poppy, on the very few occasions he'd returned from the Dark Lord unable to heal himself, had seen him so exposed, so vulnerable, and he had hissed threats at her once recovered enough to draw the shreds of his dignity about him to be able to stand, and force his disobedient legs to carry him down to his rooms, his safety.

 

He yearned for the cool darkness, the quiet, the safety of his wards and magics.

"Not seen enough yet?" he sneered, to cover the silence that had stretched entirely too long for comfort.

The green eyes met his, considering, then he saw the jaw set - definitely not a boy any longer.

He looked at the hand Potter reached out to him - square, strong-fingered, begrimed and bloodied, then looked up to his face.

Harry sighed, said, "I wouldn't want to spend a moment longer here than I had to. I guess you feel the same?"

He considered for another moment, but wherever Potter intended taking him, he didn't appear to be angry or insane.

He placed his fingers on the palm, and felt the jerk of Apparition straight away, felt the sinking feeling in his stomach, though whether that was from Potter's Side-Along Apparition skills, which shouldn't have worked in the Castle anyways, or from his self-castigation of so blindly allowing another to take control of him, he wasn't certain.

In any case they ended up in front of the blackened door of his dungeon quarters, and he glanced at Potter, wondering how the boy knew where the door was.

Potter looked at him expectantly, then gestured at the door.

"I'm assuming, as it looks like they threw everything at it and it's still shut, they didn't get through."

"Assumptions may kill you one day," he managed to growl.

"Open it. If anyone's in there, I'll sort them out. You-" his eyes dropped to the bandage Poppy had insisted on swathing his neck in, "Are going straight to bed. And you're staying there."

He glowered at the boy, but dismantled the protections and allowed Potter to precede him into the dark.

Nothing in there, of course, but what the boy put up in place of his own locks and wards - it felt like the darkness cocooned him that little bit more, as if there was velvet in the low light, the shadows smooth and liquid in the corners.

Potter steered him by the elbow through the sitting room to his bedroom, as though he'd a map drawn of the place, and he was nearly tucked into bed before he bristled, sent a disgusted look at Potter, and muttered, "I'll sort myself out."

The green eyes gleamed at the challenge, but he merely said, "I'll stay. Make sure you're O.K."

The silent white blaze of his bathroom soothed him, and after some time, he came out, to find Potter sprawled asleep on the bed, on top of the comforter.

He grimaced, but the boy looked, well, as if he'd been through a war, which he had. Sighing, and not bothering to be too careful about it, he got in under the blankets and turned away from his bed mate.

Towards morning. he awoke to find Potter rhythmically pressing against him in his sleep. A sharp shove to his shoulder had Potter up and stumbling to the loo, returning bright-eyed, showered and pink some minutes later.

"Come on, Snape, it's not like you don't get them?"

Severus lay there stiffly.

Potter peered at him, his hair ridiculous. "No?"

He would not look at the boy any longer, his bindings griping and pulling.

Potter knelt over him, insistent on being seen.

"How long?"

His voice was hoarse and soft, "How long have you worn this?"

His hand was gentle, the large rough square hand tender as he searched for, finally found the end of the spancel.

"Please - Severus, please - let me take it off?"

The fingers working the band out of its accustomed grooves were soothing and soft, until Potter lifted his eyes from his work to study Severus's face when an involuntary hiss escaped him.

"I know - " Potter grabbed his wand from the nightstand and Severus flinched, before Potter mildly said, "Not a spell on you, but on me."

When Potter's hands touched him again, the burning was replaced by soothing cold, and he got the rest of the bindings off, easing the leather from the skin.

He sat back then, gazing long on Severus's unruly flesh, even now attempting to swell and grow.

"You know it's perfectly normal?"

Potter was pulling off his pants, exposing his own pinkly flushed semi-hard cock. It curved up towards his belly, tending towards the left and twitching as he looked at Severus's pale ridged and grooved length.

Potter knelt over him, green eyes trying to force a connection whispered, "Please, please let me touch you?"

Everything was conspiring against him tonight; the boy in his bed the final twist in a game he was too tired to battle his way out from.

"Severus - ?"

And he slumped his head to the pillow in an admission of defeat.

The boy's hand was soft, spinning its silken web of feeling around him, binding him as securely as the spancel to him, and he came within a few strokes, so denied had his flesh been.

"Good, good. Now, I'll put some salve on it, it'll help heal it. Who did this to you?"

And he raised incredulous eyes to meet Potter's, watched as Potter realised, watched as Potter did not turn away, but set his mouth all the firmer and never stopped smoothing the salve with tender, cool hands.

He bowed his head, knowing he was, once again, caught by his body's unnatural urges, bound once again just as he thought he was free. The bitterness welled up in him and he couldn't help striking at Potter's hands.

"What is it? Did I hurt you?"

"Oh, no. You just shackled me into servitude to you; no, you haven't hurt me at all!"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"You -" he gestured between them, "This - ", he groaned to see his prick rising again, set on its own course with no curb or rein.

Potter, of course, smiled, his own prick swelling.

"I'd say that's a good sign."

He turned serious at Severus's groan of despair.

"Look, I've no desire to 'bind you into servitude', or whatever you called it. All I'm going to do is bring us both off, and hopefully work out some of these weals. Anyways,", he continued, peering up beneath the ridiculous hair, "Who's saying you're the one bound by this?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"Well, it's not like you've been making all the running here. If anyone is throwing themselves into anything, I think it might be me?"

He squinted at the boy, caught by the strange, unthought-of logic.

"But, then - you would need this - "

"No," the boy whispered, "No. Not need  _this_ , need you."

And he took Severus's hand, placed it on his cock.

 

Severus wakes in the morning, wondering why he feels so battered, yet so well. The missing stricture of the spancel, the presence of the binding round his neck answer some of the questions, and the entry of a naked, rumpled, happy Potter seem to answer the rest. He is pushed back down, told he must 'rest, not strain his neck, and allow himself to be looked after', Potter appearing eager to begin the looking after.

"But first, I promised Madam Pomfrey I'd treat your neck, if she let us leave the Hospital Wing."

Potter is surprisingly competent in care, and has Severus's dressing changed and wounds treated very quickly.

"You might do worse than look at a career as a MediWizard," he says as a grudging compliment, and Potter beams at him.

"Now," Potter says, "Do you want breakfast, or should we look at finding a solution to our mutual problem?"

"What mutual problem?"

"This one," says Potter, sliding his hand beneath the bedclothes to Severus's groin, taking Severus's hand and placing it on his own.

 

 

 

 

END


End file.
